


The Deeper Meanings of Wearing Someone Else's Shoes

by gala_apples



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Bodyswap, Child Abuse, F/M, Infidelity, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-16
Updated: 2012-07-16
Packaged: 2017-11-10 01:47:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/460892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unfortunately even loving sci-fi can't fully prepare Mikey Way for switching bodies with Pete Wentz, his neighbour down the street. Pete Wentz is even less prepared, he knows nothing about sci-fi. When they decide to not tell anyone, life gets all the more complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Deeper Meanings of Wearing Someone Else's Shoes

Pete jolts into wakefulness very confused. He’d been sure tonight was one of the nights where he just wasn’t going to be able to fall asleep. They come as often as not, no schedule he can set, no pattern that the therapist he doesn’t go to would analyse for hidden meaning. It’s not as though restlessness is a new thing to Pete; ever since he can remember, sleep has been an elusive mistress. As a child it meant getting up for fourth and fifth glasses of water, a bit older asking to watch one of the grown up shows with his parents, older still with the television at low volume and a t-shirt at the seam of the door to prevent the flashing commercials from making it obvious.

Then came sophomore year and the three strikes -getting caught coming home from his first party with alcohol, a phone call home about ten skipped classes in U.S. history, and a fist fight with Ellington Chalmers for calling Andy a fag- that lead to him being struck out. Exiled out, really, to a boot camp. His parents had paid for six weeks of behavioural modification, which seemed ridiculously long, an eternity, until he found out that some of the other teenagers had been there for over a year. Destiny Radin had been there over four when Pete came in, nineteen and legally free to leave except her parents wouldn’t accept her until she passed the program and she had no money or education to take care of herself. All in all, six weeks really wasn’t much.

When he got back, his insomnia changed. Instead of lying awake for hours trying to find a cool spot on his pillow, wishing he could sneak to the computer room for his Ipod and making do with humming Slayer to himself, now Pete just does his best to distract himself from his memories. Once he starts falling into memories of walking without shoes on gravel roads, not allowed to stop until the bottoms of his regulation white socks were tinged red, it’s hard to pull himself out. Punishment walks were one of his least favourite remembered activities. There are whole days he can’t remember at all though. He expects the things that happened then were worse.

Upon waking, his eyes bolt open, an automatic movement conditioned into him. The confusion almost immediately turns to terror. Not being able to remember falling asleep is one thing, having all his safeguards taken away is completely another. The light’s not on, he’s not wearing a hoodie and sweat pants knotted so many times at the waist that it takes a good five minutes to untie them every morning. Worst of all, he’s not sleeping on the couch. After a week of sneaking downstairs to the living room to sleep after coming home, his parents finally got him one for his bedroom. It’s a safe substitute since it has a back he can curl into. His room still has a bed but he hasn’t used it in the last year and a half. It’s covered in CDs and books, comforter dusty in the spots that items aren’t strewn about.

Pete goes to string his hand through his red dyed bangs. Possibly it’s not the best habit, but pulling on his hair is a grounding motion. It’s not like he pulls strands _out_ , so it can’t be that self-harming. His bangs aren’t there. Pete was never one of the ones they publicly stripped and shaved, claiming an infestation of lice. Still his safety brain kicks into high gear and he puts himself into first position, legs curled to his chest, chin as close to his knees as possible, hands on the back of his neck, fingers linked.

It’s then that he feels the chain. Pete’s never worn a necklace a day in his life, not even a collar for goth night at one of the clubs a friend convinces him to go to. But it’s there, tiny connected balls warmed by his skin, and it’s odd enough that he can pull himself out. If he can look at himself in the full length mirror attached to the back of his door he can maybe figure out what the fuck is going on.

The light switch isn’t where it’s supposed to be, and for that matter when he reaches for the door handle, neither is the knob. He gropes his hand sideways, trying to keep himself calm in the pitch black -wherever he is, there’s either no windows or some asshole put up a blackout curtain- by reminding himself it’s like a corn maze. If you keep your left hand out, you will eventually find the exit. Pete ends up snagging a finger on a poster, but that’s not exactly his biggest concern. If he’s been kidnapped he’d hardly going to give a shit if he’s fucked with someone’s decor.

He finds the light switch before he finds the doorknob. It’s dimmer than his room; looking up shows that whoever decorated thought it would be a good idea to spray paint the ceiling fixture black, so it just gives off a grey light. Pete turns in a slow circle looking for a mirror. The scan shows the owner is lucky he only tore one poster -literally every inch of wall is covered in posters. There is, however, no mirror, so Pete opens the door in search of a bathroom. _Everybody’s_ bathroom has a mirror, it’s like a interior decorating law.

He recognises the hallway layout. He’s somewhere on his street, he has to be. Chessem Bay is a cookie cutter street, forty one houses all identical except for colour of trim and shingles, and the occasional wood siding rather than stucco. Pete’s played with enough kids on his street to know the insides are identical, though there are more options to change indoors than out. This house has old seventies wallpaper in the hall, olive, maple and black with hexagons. He goes to where the bathroom is in his house, and the toilet and sink sit in the same place, white rather than the pink that matches the floral wallpaper that’s in Pete’s house.

A moment’s look into the mirror changes things. He doesn’t understand what the fuck is going on, but he knows who will. 

*

The sad truth is Mikey has the weakest bladder of anyone he knows. He’s the one demanding they stop at every gas station on road trips, and at this point he knows to hold off as long as possible when he’s drinking because once he starts any beer runs through him like a sieve. Forget age sixty, at seventeen it’s a rare night he doesn’t wake up needing to piss.

Tonight is no different. Mikey wakes up under a warm blanket -it doesn’t exactly feel right but then he got pretty stoned before crashing, there’s a good chance he grabbed half a dozen extra from the linen cupboard and one of the seldom used ones made it to the bottom layer against his tossing and turning- and for a moment contemplates trying to roll over and go back to sleep. If he does that, however, he’ll just wake up in twenty minutes needing to piss even more desperately, a progression getting worse and worse until he either gets up or pisses the bed. It only happened the one time, hung over enough, brain rubbing against a grater in his skull, that letting go seemed the less evil of two options. Since he had to get up to change the sheets, which had involved both _bending over_ and _fine motor movement_ Mikey’s pretty much never letting that option win again.

There’s no sense in reaching for his glasses from the thick headboard, as he’s not planning on opening his eyes. He’s lived in this house seventeen years, shared this room with Gee forever before dad finished converting the basement and Gerard moved down there to give them both space for puberty to happen. Mikey knows exactly how many steps it takes to get to the bathroom, could do it drunk or stoned or rolling on E or tripping on shrooms. Since Gerard’s move he can do the stairs blindfolded too. One time he even went down the steps on his hands and knees, not trusting his perception of the world in the haze of whatever the pot was laced with.

The problem is Mikey can’t find his slippers at the side of the bed, not even when he balances on one foot and swings out the other an inch off the carpet. It sucks; the bathroom tile is cold as a bastard. But he needs to piss more than he needs to protect his feet so he’ll just have to suffer this time. Mikey shuffles the fifteen steps and isn’t at the door frame of the bathroom. It’s not that concerning. He figures he probably slept in Elena’s room. He and Gee do that sometimes, when one of them feels sad. Her closet still has her sheets in it. The cotton doesn’t smell like her anymore but it’s pilled in all the right places, and her bed still creaks the way it did when she would pretend to be mad as they woke her up Sunday morning and then read them stories before church. He shuffles the extra steps to the toilet, wincing as his feet hit the first step of uncarpeted floor.

By the time Mikey’s making the return trip he’s awake enough to know that he’ll want his slippers in the morning. Mornings tend to be cramped for time, parenting Gerard because Mom and Dad have morning shifts and have been out of the house for hours. It’s either set his alarm five minutes earlier or find them now. If it was his room he’d have to throw clothes around trying to find them; he’s got too many tubs of comic books under his bed for anything to escape there. But since he slept in Elena’s room there’s a good chance they just slipped under the bed. As he enters he paws at the switch only to realise it’s already on. It’s not that odd considering the time it probably is. Mom or Dad would have turned it off as they passed the room getting ready for work, but it’s probably not quite five am yet. 

Mikey opens his eyes and blinks rapidly against the sudden glare. Two disturbing facts burst into his mind immediately. It’s not Elena’s room, and he thinks he was sleeping on a couch, not her bed, under a fleece blanket he’s never seen before. Secondly, his eyesight is perfect without his glasses. Something’s fucked. 

Mikey’s not sure why his first reaction is to go to the room that should be his, just that it seems to make sense to him. From the glow of a nightlight he can see the room is purple, with a overall unicorn theme. On the whole, not bad, unicorns are sort of kick ass. But it’s definitely not his room. Also, he thinks there’s a girl in the lacy bedding.

Mikey goes back to not-Elena’s, already trying to figure out how he dropped into another universe without knowing. More importantly, is there another version of himself? Will he cease to exist if he looks upon Mikey Two? Is there a Gerard or Ray or equivalent to help him figure out the differences between the worlds and how to get back home? They share some of the same favourite series but alter on others, the more theories for this sort of thing the better.

Someone is knocking at not-Elena’s window. Mikey finds the middle part of the curtain and pulls the edges apart. It’s him. Which he supposes answers one and two, although it certainly isn’t the safest way to test, and you figure Mikey Two would know that. He sends a quick mental prayer that the window isn’t alarmed, a fifty fifty chance between people who think suburbia is too safe to need it and ultra-paranoid suburbanites, and opens it. There’s no sudden squeal throughout the house, which is good considering he would have had no idea what code to use to turn it off.

“Hey Mikey. Do they call you that here?” Seasons of Sliders have proven calm is the best way of doing this.

“The hell? I’m Pete Wentz. Change us back right now. I don’t know what voodoo shit book you checked out from the library after DnD today but change us back.”

“DnD’s on Wednesday,” Mikey recites automatically. Forget the date _once_ and Ray and the rest have never let him forget it.

His body rolls his eyes at him. “So not the point. Fucking fix this.”

It’s Mikey’s chance to roll his eyes. From what Pete’s saying, he’s guessing they’ve switched and he’s actually using Pete’s eyes. “I didn’t do this. Lets just sleep it off, okay?”

“I don’t sleep!” Pete howls.

“Well, I do. I’m tired as fuck. I’m going back to bed. Couch. Whatever.” Mikey’s got the window half closed before something occurs to him. “If we don’t wake up in the right body, you need to get Gerard up.”

“Whatever,” Pete parrots back at him.

“I’m fucking serious. The alarm goes off, get him the fuck up. If he’s not up there’s no one to open the store. I’ll punch you in the fucking face, I’m serious.”

Pete rolls his eyes again. “I’ll get him up. Hint, I don’t get along with my family. So if you act all chummy they’ll know something’s up. Trust me, only bad things come from them noticing things about me.”

Mikey nods and closes the window. Gerard’s safe for tomorrow morning, that’s all that matters right now. He can figure the rest of it out later, when it’s not something like four in the morning. It’s a time you stay up until, not get up at.

*

Gerard is not the best in the morning. Well, that’s what he would say about the matter. Some people might call that an understatement. Mikey would probably say it was the most ridiculously obvious comment in the world, but Mikey has a bad attitude. Probably because since Mom and Dad are both at work by the time they need to get up, Mikey’s the one in charge of getting him up. He’s been told it’s not the easiest of jobs. Gerard tends to reply with something along the lines of “quit bitching,” unless Frank or Bob or Ray says it first. He’s the big brother twenty three hours a day, Mikey should be able to handle a role switch from eight to nine.

Still the role never really goes away, and it’s impossible not to notice that Mikey is off, because it’s _Mikey_. Normally he comes into the bedroom and either shoves him until there’s enough room on the edge of the bed or climbs over him to the side between Gerard and the wall. Mikey’s first order of business is to put his cold motherfucking feet on Gerard’s shins, squirming his toes into the space between his calves. Then he plays the ‘I’m going to poke Gerard in random spots because I’m a giant bastard’ game. As much as it would make Gerard smack him -if it wasn’t Mikey, if it wasn’t too exhausting to contemplate moving his arm out of the blankets- Gerard has to give props to the tenacious little fucker. It always works, better than methods that others have tried. Gerard was always the first to cave in the _nuh uh-nuh huh_ game as a kid, and ten years has done nothing to his stamina. He always gets sick of being prodded before Mikey gets sick of prodding.

At this point in the every day saga of getting ready for work his senses haven’t quite woken yet. It’s generally a two at a time thing, he can hear and touch or touch and see. So Mikey helps with that too, tells him if something is too smelly to wear to work, or if his hair looks greasy enough that he needs to wash it or if it can wait until tomorrow. On the rarest of occasions he even tells him he needs to shave. That’s not often though; Gerard’s not really a hairy guy and probably shouldn’t be trusted with even a safety razor before noon.

This morning absolutely nothing in phase one goes to schedule. Mikey wakes him up by shouting his name through the door. Gerard’s ears resent having to wake up so quickly, but it’s been seven years of living in the basement and Mikey occasionally too incoherent to do anything but collapse at his door frame and wait for Gerard to open it himself, he can hear the difference between open door calling and closed door calling. Mikey sounds abnormally irritated, which would probably concern him more if it wasn’t ass o’ clock.

When Gerard finally manages to wake his throat enough to say ‘what’ -okay, so it’s a grunt, Mikey will know it for what it is- because from the door? seriously? there’s no reply. Instead Gerard can hear the heavy footsteps of Mikey clomping back upstairs.

He considers following Mikey to see what’s up, if they had some sort of drama between the two of them getting fucked up that Gerard can’t remember and may or may not have to apologise for. But there’s a good chance that Mikey went out after Gerard passed out, because he usually does. For all he knows everything is fine, Mikey just had rough sex with some guy last night and is all bruises and doesn’t feel up to tossing himself over his older brother and vigorously poking him. It’s the kind of thing that makes Gerard happy to be in a relationship. With it there’s only rough sex when he wants it. Although he pretty much has to assume Mikey wants it too. Otherwise he has to brutally murder someone and reruns of CSI have taught him killers are always caught and put in jail. Gerard decides to work on the premise that everything is fine untilproven otherwise.

His brother already up the stairs means there’s no incentive to get up. Though it’s never been carrot in front as much as stick behind with Mikey. Gerard takes the once in a lifetime opportunity to roll over and go back to sleep. When Mikey comes back Gerard doesn’t know how long he talks before he actually hears the implied threat in “No, seriously. Time to get up.”

There’s barely time to groan something that might sound like ‘what’ before Mikey strikes. Gerard’s eyes are closed but he can sense when Mikey turns the light on, ears catching the snick of the light switch. Moments later it doesn’t take sensing to know his little brother’s taken the goddamn blankets.

“What crawled up your ass and died,” he manages to say nearly coherently. Mikey doesn’t reply so Gerard’s not sure if he caught the message mumbled into the pillow. The light’s not on until it leaks through his closed eyelids. And it’ll take his body a good five minutes to lose its warmth from the sudden lack of covers. This does not mean defeat.

It’s some time later that he concedes, skin goosebumped. Gerard considers this the Bob method, and it’s possibly his least favourite. When Gerard’s at his house on the rare nights it’s possible, the bastard turns up the air conditioning a half an hour before trying to rouse him. Mikey’s upstairs again, so Gerard just reaches onto the pile of clothes on the floor. He feels more than sees softness of a hoodie and rough, slightly sticky jeans, eyes not quite used to the glare of the light bulb. The stickiness isn’t spilled paint, and there’s nothing on the hoodie, and that’s gonna have to be good enough.

Plopping down into his normal chair at the kitchen table is proof enough that phase two of getting to work is also being fucked with. Not only is there no beer stein of coffee sitting on the ratty place mat, he can’t even smell it brewing. It’s enough to make Gerard wonder if there’s a liquid version of anorexic, because he literally cannot remember a single day since Mikey turned fourteen that he hasn’t had at least a cup. At least Mikey’s making himself toast, that much is normal in the universe.

He waits for a minute, hoping his presence will jolt Mikey into action. When it doesn’t happen Gerard offers into the air “coffee?”

“Oh, yeah, sure.” Which isn’t even close to the right answer. If for some unfathomable reason Mikey had decided against coffee, his response to Gerard asking for it should have been a hearty ‘make it your own damn self’.

Still, coffee is coffee. It goes against his morals to turn it down if Mikey’s making it. And he’s got the entire car drive to question his brother about what the hell is wrong with him. Gerard buries his face in his hands against the evil sun peering through the sheer yellow curtains and counts down the minutes. Eventually the coffee maker lets off the vicious shriek that is only music to his ears and Gerard prepares to flood himself with the sweet nectar of the morning.

Mikey gives him a cup. An actual teacup sized cup. It’s like Gerard’s entire existence is shattering into bits. Mikey’s cup is also teacup sized which doesn’t make it better. He closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to see it, it’ll only make things worse to see the cup. The handle feels odd in his fingers, the weight of the coffee just the dregs of his normal mug. As he raises the teacup he tries to rationalise it. Maybe one of the things that happened last night was attempting to make mixed drinks in his stein, and it fell to the ground and broke.

The coffee is pisswater. The coffee is at least three scoops less than what both Mikey and Gerard mix, Mikey every morning, Gerard in the evenings. The coffee is fucking tea, and the question bursts out of his mouth before he can stop it. “What is _wrong_ with you?”

Mikey shrugs and _grins_. Not his normal smile, or even the stretched mouth that comes with hysterical laughter at Monty Python. A fucked up, teeth flashing _grin >_.“What, dude? Nothing.”

Mikey’s never called him dude. Ever. Gerard changes his mind. He’s not going to probe for details of last night in the car. He’s going to keep his fucking mouth shut until he can get to work and ask Frank and Bob their opinions on alien invasion. Because something fucking crazy is happening here, and that’s about the only thing that could explain Mikey waking him up by _shouting_ at him, taking his blankets, forgetting to make coffee, making coffee weaker than water, and rounding it all off with calling him _dude_. He can only hope Ebay has overnight shipping for ray guns. 

*

Gerard drives him to school. Pete strongly hopes that Mikey knows how to drive and this is just the Ways caring about the environment and conserving gas, or even being cheap and only wanting one car, because no one at home will be giving him a ride if he can’t do it himself. The lesson of only trusting yourself is repackaged and sold as being self-reliant to make it prettier to the consumer, and making sure their children have driver licenses is a single piece of the puzzle. It’s a five member four car family, Hilary being twelve being the reason there’s not five. Pete doesn’t like it, words spiralling in his head as his fingers tap on the grey seatbelt. It’s nerve wracking sitting in the passenger seat, not being in control. Gerard still being half asleep and a total spaz doesn’t help much. Mikey seriously deserves a fucking medal for putting up with this shit every day.

It’s at the doors of Washington that it really hits him how difficult this entire thing is going to be. After leaving his bedroom window Pete spent the rest of the night awake watching some of the movies burned onto DVD-R’s with Mikey’s Xbox. Mikey’s parents were up early, and then he’d had to follow Mikey’s stupid instructions about making Gerard get out of bed, the lazy bastard. He hadn’t really thought about the mechanics of pretending to be someone else. He doesn’t know his schedule aside from sharing band class, he doesn’t know his friends names or if he’s deadly allergic to shellfish. Which, fine, probably aren’t going to be in the school cafeteria, but the point still stands.

At the very least he needs to figure out what classes he needs to go today. Mikey had a backpack sitting by the front door, Pete had grabbed it without thinking about making sure it was packed. Pete stops by the office, where the traffic is slower. No sense in trekking all the way to one side of the school if Mikey’s first period is on the other. Opening the bag proves disappointing to his plan to figure shit out and possibly damning if a teacher sees all that’s inside. It’s only half full; two empty bottles of water and one uncracked, a pair of jeans with swirls and rambles written on them in White Out, wrist bands, a few dead glow stick necklaces, a Tylenol bottle that does not have Tylenol in it, an iPhone with headphones, and a notebook. Mikey apparently not only owns a party backpack, he leaves it in the middle of the hallway.

The only thing that could be at all useful is Mikey’s phone, so he can text himself for a class schedule. Presuming that Mikey found the outlet that his phone was charging from and took it with him. The back of it is altered; where the Apple logo should be is a piece of worn red duct tape, with 1111 scrawled out on it in black marker. It turns out to be the locking code, which seems incredibly redundant, but whatever. It’s Mikey’s privacy, not his.

Pete can’t help but nose first. Mikey’s got a huge address book, one that rivals Pete’s. It makes him want to figure out Mikey’s Facebook password so he can see how many Friends he has. Only some of the entries overlap, people like Ryan Ross who are social climbers who insist on knowing everyone. From the bag it’s obvious Mikey is a partier, the sort that logs everyone they’ve ever talked to into their phone. Not that Pete’s that much different, more than a few exchanged sentences and he’s typing in their number. But he does it because he wants texts about _this really great band is playing this place on this night_. He’s willing to bet Mikey’s are at least half drug hookups.

Pete’s got his number typed out when a massive hand comes down on his shoulder. It’s all Pete can do to not drop to his knees for second position. His inner voice telling him he’s in high school and he doesn’t do that anymore, repeating it until Pete feels safe, drowns out half of what the guy says. Looking behind him he can only be happy that friends don’t often call each other by their first names, intent to get their attention made obvious with other means, because he has no fucking clue who this guy is.

Well, if he’s friendly enough to touch Mikey, he should be friendly enough to know what courses Mikey’s taking. “What’s first today?”

Normally Pete hates classes changing order between even days and odd days. It’s disorganised, and not in a good way like a mosh pit or Ashlee’s bedroom. Today he’s grateful for it, if only because he just sounds like a spaz not knowing what school day it is instead of a complete moron not knowing a schedule he’s had for two months.

“Come on man, it’s day two.”

Pete stares at the tall guy. Hopefully it’s close enough to Mikey’s stare to seem real. It seems like Mikey’s default expression the few times he’s seen him walking down the street, or at the same youth club, or the rare time that he looks up from his sheet of music in band.

“Which means sociology, AP math, Spanish, lunch, band, physics, 3D art. Seriously, how do I know your schedule when you don’t know your schedule?”

Unfortunately for him, there’s still a good fifteen minutes before first period. He guesses the waste of time in the morning is the price Mikey pays for getting a ride, but it’s annoying as hell. Worse, he’s forced to follow metal-hair to his locker because that’s probably what Mikey would do, and he needs to try to figure out what to say to sound like him. Pete suspects this would be less of a problem if it wasn’t Mikey Way he was body-switched with. Mikey is a weird guy to have to imitate. When they were all younger and all you had to do to know your neighbour was knock on every door on the street and ask who wanted to play soccer or tag or hockey, the Ways never joined. Not just didn’t join on Pete’s invitation, but didn’t join on anyone’s. The only thing the Ways did was sidewalk chalk drawings with some of the girls, and that was rare too.

At first glance he’s sort of lucky, because it appears for all the people in his contacts it’s only this guy that cares enough to hang out before class. There’s only only person Pete needs to fake it for. Mikey’s going to have it harder, faking it for Ashlee and Patrick and Andy and Joe and whichever others happen to crash their lunch table today. But when you look at it deeper, the sole presence is actually a negative. Since there’s no one else with them to distract him the guy -scrolling through Mikey’s pictures there’s one of Mikey, his brother and this guy, labelled Mikeyfuckingway, Gway, and Ray- will probably notice if he does something wrong. Or well, not wrong, just not Mikeyish. Because Pete’s willing to bet Mikey’s not full of behaving in what would be the normal, right reaction to things.

Three minutes in sociology gives him the idea. They’ve been studying developmental theories, and this seems to fit perfectly for telling Mikey everything he needs to know. Pete’s sociology is second period on even days, so he can give Mikey his list when they pass in the hall. Hopefully Mikey will have his answers by band, and they’ll both know enough to deal with each other’s families this evening.

The letter is pretty much identical to what’s on the overhead. It’s even got highlighter to simulate Mr Weston’s multiple colours of overhead pen. Pete Wentz’s hierarchy of needs.

physiological  
air- need it.  
water- need it. i drink water or gatorade. don’t touch the 2% milk, only Andrew drinks it.  
food- not allergic to anything. i don’t eat more than toast for breakfast. i never eat scrambled eggs, they will know immediately. also don’t eat peanut butter or fish. i guess this sounds weird, but if you’re around my family if you see someone eat any of the three they’ll expect you to have a panic attack. wiki for info on how to do that.  
sleep- lol, i dont. i sleep on the couch in my room, but you can probably use the bed cause no one would ever come into my room. im not gerard though, i wake up with an alarm if i do fall asleep.  
shelter- i live three houses over, obviously.  
clothing- a hoodie at all times. but you do that too, i think, so it’s nothing new. joe thinks he can judge my mood based on my shoes he’s full of crap but he’ll try. i think it’s full of crap so he’ll expect you to laugh.

safety/security  
-i don’t have any property or employment. i don’t have any resources. wait, he said it’s not minerals it’s like financial resources. well, i’m not telling you my bank account number, my wallet has fifty bucks, that should be enough for whatever. i mostly spend money on concert tickets, mom and dad pay for caf lunches and gas. i go to a lot of concerts though.  
-locker combo’s 3-15-24  
-i’m healthy, and no dentist apointments in the near future so you lucked out.  
- ~~there’s no such thing as someone’s body being safe or secure~~ i don’t have any bullies, and i know how to fight. i’m not sure if my body would remember or if it’s all in my brain now though.

love/belonging  
family- mom, dad, no aunts, grama on mom’s side but we only acknowledge her at christmas. i fucking hope we’re not stuck like this until christmas. Andrew’s 16, Hilary’s 12. none of us are friends, none of us talk. wentzes are self sufficent.  
friends- primary: 1)Andy. red hair, glasses. hardcore vegan, checks shoes for bits of leather before he wears them. mostly straight. primary goal in life is swaying people to his cause. put up with it, don’t buy into it. 2) Joe. jew-fro. stoner. doesn’t always hang out, has his secondary group of Jon and Tom and Cassie. laugh at what he says. totally straight, made out with him once, it failed. 3) Patrick. you’ll get your nose broken if you try to take his hat off and don’t move fast enough, but he’ll know something’s up if you don’t try. call him lunchbox or pattycakes, again, dodge the hit. he might be in love with me, completely ignore anything, patrick’s not something that can be fucked up.  
\--->secondary: Ryan. wears a lot of makeup. i think he might crossdress, but i don’t care, whatever makes him happy. he’ll probably invite me to stuff, get confirmation from two other sources in my phone that it’ll be awesome before going, he likes literature circles and shit too. William. long black hair, pretty as fuck. again, mostly at shows, he goes here but we don’t really talk. fucking head over heels with Mike Carden, it’s the most obvious thing in the world, if you say it he’ll beat you to death, he’s got all his shit suppressed. repressed. whatever. Travis. black, tons of peircings. only at shows. try to think of at least one band he’s never heard of to tell him about it.  
intimacy- been dating Ashlee about a year. we have sex, USE A CONDOM, her mom is creepy and has swapped out birth control for candies before. a few guys will try to hit on you, probably. they’re not ex’s, we never dated. don’t be bitchy unless you have to be.  
-on the soccer team. i’m striker, please wiki for details.

esteem  
so i’m kind of fucked up. i’m not telling you everything, you don’t need to know. PAAJ know bits of it, but it’s not like i talk about it a lot. my family doesn’t want to know. just make sure to do the panic attack thing and everything will be fine.

self actualization  
yeah, i have no fucking idea what this is. realising one’s potential and fulfulling it, apparently. mother teresa as an example. so it doesn’t really apply. 

 

*

“Hey,” Patrick says to Pete as he sits beside him, waiting for the inevitable shove of the spiral bound notebook into his face. After all, it’s come regularly for the last two years. If Patrick wasn’t such a good flincher his head would be covered in paper cuts.

Pete looks up slowly, slow enough that Patrick has to wonder if something is wrong. He says _hey_ back. It’s hard to fuck up one syllable, but it sounds wrong, somehow.

In high school you mostly meet people because they sit beside you in some class, or a teacher forces you to be partners for some projects, or they take your parking spot and you feel the urge to bitch them out while you’re with your friends and they come up from behind when you’re not looking and you think you’re going to die but instead they say you have spunk. Not Pete. Of course that’s not how Patrick met Pete, because Pete doesn’t know how to do normal interactions.

Since sophomore year Patrick’s been in charge of the school literary magazine. It’s a bit of a lofty title, considering it’s about fifteen stapled pages eight times a year, but it’s something that looks good on an university application, and that matters since he’ll be going to school with a combination of loan and scholarship. All in all, it’s a pretty good gig compared to some of the other things he could use. It’s a way to gather attention in the future without having to worry about gathering attention now. He’s not the guy that has to catch a football in front of a few hundred teenagers, he’s not the guy that has to deliver lines with emotion and subtext while making sure he’s remembering the blocking correctly. He’s just the guy that sits in Mr Allen’s English class after school once a month and reads through the submissions that have been dropped off by the same handful of people.

So when Patrick moved Alana’s story into the fuck-no pile -steampunk was cool in theory, but not when it read like ten pages of world building- and the page under it had a name Patrick didn’t recognise he had been interested. Not that he had anything against publishing Brendon’s folk tales, but a new writer was always a good thing, and hopefully it would be a genre more accessible to the average teenager.

What it had been was a suicide note thinly veiled in a poem. With a set of balls Patrick hadn’t known that he had, he’d tracked down ‘Pete Wentz’ and told him the poem was crap, and it wouldn’t make the cut. If he wanted to be in the paper he had to write something better. It had worked, had become a One Thousand and One Nights sort of thing, each poem making Pete stick around a day longer. Most adults wouldn’t have understood the technique; if Patrick had ever told his parents they would have been appalled that he didn’t report him to the guidance counsellor. But eventually Pete’s poetry had moved into less suicidal affairs, had done so before Patrick had felt it necessary to betray his confidence.

Reading Pete’s writings and giving his opinions on it has stayed a habit. He’s pretty much the only one that’s capable of doing it. Pete doesn’t react well to most other’s opinions. Patrick’s seen nightmarish reactions: Pete refusing to write, or Pete defiantly making mistakes on purpose to piss off the audience. The three weeks fucking asshat William Beckett shared all his creative self doubt and Pete picked up on it were horrible. And it was an entire semester of Pete refusing to capitalise the names of countries after a teacher bitched him out for it, a half a mark off for each improperly written instance leaving him to almost fail the course.

This semester they’ve got gym together first period, or second on odd days. Pete’s not great with patience, Patrick can’t really expect Pete to wait until lunch to hand his notebook over. He’s not sure how they get away with doing it during Mrs Batt’s daily fitness lecture. Not so much with her, all she cares about is shouting at them about how they’re all atrophying from using the computer instead of going hiking, she hardly ever actually looks at them. It’s the other people in their class. Patrick’s pretty sure their peers should be giving them shit for caring about poems. Maybe they think it’s next period’s homework, or lyrics. Or maybe Pete’s scary because he went to military camp and for all they know he’s trained to be a superior weapon that will kick their asses. Maybe it’s just that he’s a jock, and jocks don’t get teased. Whatever the reason, no one has said anything thus far, and Patrick’s not going to complain about not getting picked on.

Surprisingly, it’s actually better with gym first period. The first class Patrick thought being away from a desk would make annotating poetry impossible, and somewhat feared the battle of Pete vs. Impossibilities. But if they change into gym clothes as soon as Pete gets to school, and talk quietly while she’s lecturing so she doesn’t notice them pointing to a paper on Patrick’s lap, they’ve got anywhere from ten to fifteen minutes before they need to start doing the warm up jog.

“So where’s today’s work,” Patrick prompts after a minute of silence. Something’s obviously up. It’s weird, the few times he hasn’t wanted to share he’s told Patrick to fuck off, that it’s none of his fucking business in a harsh hiss pitched to not attract Mrs Batt’s attention. He’s never completely ignored it; Patrick’s not sure if he’s capable of ignoring anything.

“It’s gym class.”

“Yeah?” It’s possible it’s a long poem and Pete doesn’t think they’ll have time. Sociology second period could be better because as long as it appears they’re writing notes they probably won’t get caught. It’s just Patrick likes talking about Pete’s writing more than he likes marking his page up with crossed out lines and arrows for lines that should exchange places. He’d really rather do this now.

Pete rolls his eyes, a gesture he doesn’t usually use with him. “Gym class doesn’t have homework.”

“Well yeah, unless you Google ways to distract yourself from the mind numbing agony that are these lectures. Come on man, I mean your poetry.”

Patrick really doesn’t understand the way Pete is staring at him. It takes almost a full minute before Pete shrugs slightly. When that’s all that comes before Mrs Batt orders them to start running length of the gym Patrick knows something’s wrong. He needs to consult with Ashlee to see if something horrible happened that he doesn’t know about yet. If she doesn’t know either this could get ugly and dramatic, fast.

*

Mikey’s known Pete for seventeen years, both born to houses on Chessem Bay. It’s not eternity; if things work out positively it won’t even be a third of his life. That being said, it’s definitely long enough to know that Pete’s a jerk. Not a massive one, he’s no Parker James, beating up people who enjoy the gentleman’s game of chess. But he’s not particularly nice, or mannered, or articulate.

Granted, those probably aren’t Mikey’s top three qualities either. But at least Mikey’s family likes _him_ , inasmuch as he sees them. Breakfast this morning was one of the most awkward meals he’s ever had. Pete’s sister didn’t even pass the Nutella when he asked, just pointed to it sitting on the table. He’s not sure he can make up an excuse that explains Pete and his two siblings utterly ignoring each other justifiably.

At the very least he and Pete are incompatible as hell. Which could be the reason this happened, some Power That Be making them walk the shoes of another. Literally, Mikey’s been lucky enough to have already heard a six minute lecture on how Pete wearing the red converse with the pink and grey star shoelaces means he’s feeling peppy. What it really means is somehow Pete has no black shoes and converse were about as good as he was going to get this morning. Metaphorically though, making people with disparate viewpoints understand each other seems to generally be the reason in most body switching programs and movies he can remember, and Mikey’s tentative prognosis is _completely fucked_ , because Pete is not going to want to befriend him. He’s not exactly itching for the opportunity to be Pete’s bestie either. Hopefully they can have a less active role, and they’ll just pop back in a week after they realise each other’s lives are Very Hard.

It was just good luck that Patrick came up to him as he parked and led him to first period gym, he would have been fucked otherwise. He did know that Pete has sociology opposite him, as they pass each other entering and leaving, depending on what day of the cycle it is. It’s not until he gets Pete’s notes that Mikey can open his locker and take out the textbooks he’ll need while he pretends to be Pete. The lack of bulky hardcovers with dented spines raise his suspicions. Pete’s schedule is taped to the inside of the locker door, along with a mirror and a few 8x11 printer paper posters. The column outlining Pete’s day shows just how wrong they are to be switched. Of the six courses he’s taking, the only two that are tolerable are what Mikey has too, socio and band. Pete’s also got gym, athletic leadership, cooking and welding. A morning _and_ afternoon class of running, on _purpose_ , along with burning stuff and really really burning stuff. He can only hope Pete’s body has muscle memory, otherwise he’s going to die horribly. Or other people will. He’s pretty sure Ray or Frank or Bob or Gee would run screaming in the other direction if they saw him with a hose that shot fire.

Mikey doesn’t bother to write out his own hierarchy to give Pete in band, though he keeps Pete’s instead of writing his own notes in sociology. Mikey learns best through examples. His notes are littered with brackets with what something actually means inside them. Pete’s letter is an entire page of examples that’ll help him remember Maslow for the next test.

As far as Mikey can see, there are only four things that Pete needs to while pretending to be him. He’ll need his locker combination, since he’s got classes that actually involve learning things, classes that have homework. He’s feeling pretty confident that unless Pete’s got one of those flame throwing things in his basement his classes don’t have much to take home. From the notes it seems like Pete’s out a lot in the evenings, so that much at least won’t be suspicious as hell. But it does mean that he needs the house alarm code, as well as the location of the hidden spare key in case his shit gets stolen when he’s out and he can’t get in the house. Lastly, possibly most importantly, Pete’ll need the password for his computer.

Pete will probably bitch at the lack of information on the paper torn from his binder, but Mikey doesn’t see the point in trying to go all out. There are too many details Mikey could never explain about his life, and sometimes it seems like his entire existence is composed of details. No cheat sheet is going to tell Pete how to deal with Gerard threatening to Rocks Fall when JT isn’t listening to his DMing on Wednesdays, or how to make a perfect mix CD for the store, or how to properly conduct the ‘no, Catcher in the Rye isn’t the best book in existence’ argument with Frank. Pete just needs to keep his head down, keep waking up Gerard and otherwise let everyone think Mikey’s being a jerk because he’s on a binge or something. Sci-fi canon says they won’t be switched very long, Mikey can rebuild bridges later.

If Mikey needs proof of his point that you can never know enough about someone to make it realistic, all he needs is to look at first period. Pete didn’t say shit-all about having to write something for Patrick, and Mikey’s not planning on producing. If Patrick expects poetry on a daily basis Pete better email him some. Otherwise he’ll just have to give Patrick that woods less travelled one, and see if he notices. Even Mystique couldn’t be expected to write poems to keep up an act.

*

Ray’s cell buzzes against the hip of his jeans and he plunges his hand in to pull it out before it goes to message. He hates calling people back, it’s always awkward to be all ‘so, you called me, am I still relevant to your existence or has the moment passed?’, and so he tries to avoid it whenever he can.

The screen says Gerard, and considering the time he must be calling from work. It’s weird, but not entirely incomprehensible; if the Wi-Fi has gone down at the shop and he has a question about a movie that they can’t remember between the three of them, Ray and Mikey are both connections to the internet via the school library.

Instead of getting a blurted question about what was that Christmas horror movie where the woman gets impaled on deer horns -Gerard has never started a single conversation with ‘hello’ in the five years he’s known him- it’s something much weirder. “Has Mikey fainted from dehydration?”

Ray knows better than to even ask why. “No,” he says firmly. As much as he’d like to layer a _what the hell_ into his answer, if Gerard thinks he’s saying _no?_ he’ll start to pester him for proof. 

Gerard doesn’t really hold the phone away from his face as he shouts at Frank, or Bob, most likely both, actually, “it’s not the faculty then.” His volume drops a notch as he asks “has he appeared to be holding one too many objects?”

“The hell?” Questioning tone is totally justified in this case, because what the hell?

“You know, like he’s got a third hand that you never really see. Or tentacles, even.”

“The _hell_ ” he repeats, changing the emphasis so it becoming a completely different phrase.

“We think he might be an alien,” Gerard explains. 

The five minute bell goes, Ray being unlucky enough to have his locker situated right under it meaning it blares directly into his eardrums. Normally Ray flinches away, but in this case it’s a boon. There’s no way Gerard hasn’t heard it through the phone. If he can pretend that it was the last bell and Gerard buys it he can get out of this conversation with a minimum of confusion. “I gotta go.”

“Yeah, okay. Just come over after school, bring Mikey for me. Call your parents at lunch so you can come over.”

Ray’s not going to bother noting that he’s seventeen and his parents don’t give a shit what he does as long as he’s home for midnight curfew, nor that he hasn’t asked for permission to visit the Ways since junior high. Instead he goes with “it’s like two already.”

“Shit, really?” Sometimes Ray doesn’t understand how Galaxy doesn’t burn to the ground, with the amount of attention they pay to things that aren’t comic books-manga-graphic novels-Magic cards-action figures. To be fair though, he’s pretty sure there’s no clock in the store.

“Class, Gee. We’ll see you later.”

The drive to Chessem Bay is further than the street Ray lives on, the middle of suburbia rather than the poorer edges of it. His car is a piece of shit; Lou got someone to give it away for five hundred bucks, and while most things about it suck, including the way the rear view mirror falls off every ten feet, and two of the three seat belts in the back don’t click shut, the part that sucks the most is the front console. The radio dial is permanently stuck to AM, which is all talk shows, and it eats CDs so Ray can’t pop in one the hundred of mixes he’s gotten from Mikey. Normally he’d just put his iPod on, but it’s a dick move when he’s driving with someone else.

Mikey’s not really helping though. He’s being hangover quiet, even though Ray’s pretty sure he hasn’t drunk at school in a few weeks. He generally saves that shit for late night, with Gee or at clubs. It’s weird. It’s not ‘holy shit Mikey’s become a pod person’ weird, but it isn’t something Ray likes either. Gerard’s supposed to be the drinker with a bit of drugs, Mikey the drug user with a bit of alcohol, the rest of them partaking occasionally. If Mikey’s getting fucked up during school that’s all sorts of A&E channel Interventiony problems.

He’s saved from worrying about the sudden change when he spots the Hummer in the lane behind him. The day he knew he was going to be friends with Mikey Way was the day they were both standing at the front of the front of the junior high waiting for their respective rides, and a silver Hummer pulled up and this weedy kid with horrible hair muttered that it looked like an AT-AT. Before he could stop himself he’d mentioned that it didn’t have legs, and the kid just looked at him evenly for a minute before acknowledging that was the major issue.

“Rogue three!” Ray waits for ‘copy rogue leader’, so he can come back with ‘Wedge, I’ve lost my gunner, you’ll have to take the shot, I’ll cover for you’, and Mikey will tell him to set his harpoon, he’ll follow him on the next pass.

Mikey doesn’t say anything, so Ray tries again, voice louder. “Rogue three!”

“The fuck?”

Ray doesn’t try to start another conversation.

It’s strange to see all of three of them in the Way house so early. Gerard works nine to three, with the understanding that after Mikey graduates he’ll stay until four. Bob and Frank switch off for the noon to seven shift, but the one that’s not working usually visits for the afternoon. Not that Ray skips to go hang out at Galaxy often. If he goes Mikey wants to come, and Gerard flails at the idea of Mikey skipping class and failing and ruining their future plans. Besides, unless there’s a release or a tournament, they can hang out in the evening.

Mikey kicks off his shoes at the door and goes straight for his bedroom, not saying anything about the freakish occurrence that is the three of them closing the shop four hours early. Ray pokes his head into the kitchen for a moment to say hi to Mr and Mrs Way before he takes off his and crashes in the space between Gerard and Frank perched on Bob.

“How was school?”

Whenever his brothers ask he kind of wants to punch them in the face for being so condescending. Everyone has to go through high school; just because they’re college age doesn’t make him completely idiotic. Bob always asks it differently though, like he actually gives a shit. More often than not, Ray ends up telling them the shit that happened in his tiny section of Washington that day.

Today is not one of those days. “Yeah, no, you’re totally right. He didn’t know I was quoting Empire.”

“Mikey. Didn’t know... just to be clear, you are talking about Empire Strikes Back empire, right? Not, like, that band?”

“Rogue three?” Ray says tiredly.

“He didn’t say copy rogue leader? The _fuck_.”

“I know.” Ray’s not really a believer. Not the way the Ways and Frank are. He watches and reads horror and scifi because it’s entertaining, not because he thinks he’s learning things. But for Mikey to not know Star Wars? Something seriously fucked up has to be happening. 

*

Pete would have to be a fucking moron to not know they’re talking about him in the living room. He just doesn’t know what to do about it. Mikey didn’t give him a list of ways to lead his life properly until they switch back. He’s working off memories of the Ways being loners in their single digit years, and the few times he’s seen Mikey at the same all ages club that he’s at. He sure as hell doesn’t know enough about him to push his brother and best friend and whoever the hell the other two are into being happy with him. Mikey Way is a complete dick for leaving him no way to handle this.

He gets incontrovertible proof when the four of them go into the guest bedroom. The wall between Mikey’s room and the guest room is as thin as the wall between his and Hilary’s at home. It’s probably the same in all the identical houses on Chessem, shoddy contracting Mike Holmes style. He can hear them talking about different aliens that might be possessing Mikey, and he laughs for a minute before he remembers that body switching isn’t exactly more plausible.

After nearly forty-five minutes they finally seem to run out of possible supernatural causes. Pete would be impressed with the breadth of their knowledge if it wasn’t on stuff that’s so nerdy. If Gerard or Ray knew the World Cup standings, or the collected works of Chris Crutcher, that would be different.

“What if it’s not though? What if-” Ray pauses for a minute and Pete can almost see him shoving his hair off his face nervously. He’s done that about once every three minutes since he met him in the morning. “Let’s take him to the hospital.”

“What?” Frank doesn’t seem impressed by the idea, and Pete shares the sentiment. Nothing good ever comes from being in the Hospital Wing. Very, very bad things happen in the Hospital Wing.

“I’ll be right back.” Pete can hear springs squeaking as Ray levers himself off the bed, and then a different squeak of the floorboards under the carpet. Pete follows, instinctively hugging close to the wall. If he’s got to bolt every extra moment he has helps.

Ray heads straight for Mikey’s parents, who have reclaimed the living room; feet propped on mismatched footstools, ashtray sitting on the empty middle cushion. He doesn’t talk to them about inanities like Pete always tries when he goes over to Ashlee’s or Joe’s. He doesn’t even greet them politely, just cuts straight to the chase. “I think Mikey’s really sick. A concussion, or a fever that’s cooking his brain.”

“Why do you say that?” Mikey’s mom’s voice is thickened with three decades of smoke. It makes Pete wonder what Joe is going to sound like when they’re all middle-aged, and if he’ll still know him, or if they’ll have drifted into meaningless tweets and Likes on Facebook after high school.

“He doesn’t remember the dialogue or action sequences in Empire Strikes Back.”

Pete’s expecting them to laugh. They don’t. Instead they sound horrified. “Ray, you’re sure?”

“Not a word.”

“We knew he went out a lot, but to think he’s killed his brain that bad... Ray, do you know what he took, where he went last night?”

Pete’s heart is about to burst out of his chest. This is the perfect opportunity for him to be ratted out on in order for him to get favour. It doesn’t matter that this is the middle of suburbia, Pete’s eyes are closed and he can feel James’ hand on his back.

“Um, I don’t think he did? He doesn’t actually take stuff, he just drinks. He comes over a lot, I’m teaching him to play guitar.” It’s beyond obvious that Ray is bluffing. Pete would know even if he hadn’t accidentally taken Mikey’s party backpack to school. A six year old could tell he’s bluffing. But Pete’s never been more grateful for a shitty lie in his life. As Ray exits the living room and pushes by him in the hall Pete flashes a smile at him. A small one, not a normal one, but he thinks that’s one of the things that got him caught out in the first place. He can’t help it. No one would have ever done that at camp, and Ashlee, Patrick, and Andy are all brutally no regrets honest while Joe doesn’t often see through his haze to know what to say besides the first thing on the top of his brain.

Pete retreats to Mikey’s cave of band posters and crappy lighting. It’s easier to put on a movie and ignore the voices from the next room than to think about if he owes Ray, and how he might be expected to pay him back. When his brain is stuck between the rules drilled in from before, and how things work now, it’s best to distract himself if he can. 

He’s halfway through one of the lame downloads on Mikey’s computer -movies fucked him over once, he won’t let it happen again; he should probably watch all the shit Mikey has- when the door opens. Gerard arms are crossed across his chest, and Pete has no doubts that the last ten minutes in the guest room have been a pep talk to convince him to do this. “I know you’re not my brother.”

“Are you on crack?” he adds a chuckle to round off the reply.

“See, Mikey wouldn’t say that. He’d make a reference to something, Slapshot, or the Boondock Saints.” Pete’s at least heard of those, but it’s a bit late now. Before he can attempt, Gerard asks “Did you do this?”

“Do what, Gee?”

For the first time Pete’s ever witnessed, Gerard is pissed. “Don’t call me that when you’re not him. That’s not cool. Did you _do_ this? I don’t think you did because if this was an infiltration you’d know so much more about him to be able to be undercover.”

Pete gives up pretending. “I’m not an alien. I’m not a demon or anything either. I’m just a guy. I have no idea what happened, and it’s not like I like being not me.”

“Do you know who he is now? Is he you now?”

Pete lies. He doesn’t even think about it, it’s instinctual. Mikey’s made it pretty clear that he just wants to wait until they pop back into their rightful bodies, and having the entire Way family rush to his house to see him would be terrible on several levels. “My name is Seymour, I’m from Buffalo. When I called my home my voice wouldn’t admit to being not me. I’m sure when he figures out a way to contact you safely he will. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to freak you out?”

Gerard shakes his head, crestfallen. “That’s not right. I’m the older brother.”

Pete doesn’t know what to say to that. Even before camp his parents fostered individual strength. When he got back Andrew and Hilary were scared of him, Mom and Dad refusing to tell them why he was sent away compounding in their heads until their older brother became a monster. He’s never gotten to take care of a younger sibling.

“Look, I know you’re not him. But I could use a hug right now and Mikey would give me one. Could you just, like, pretend for a second?” The concept of a loving sibling sounds nice. Pete hugs him. 

*

It’s not sneaking out in the traditional sense. There’s no curfew he’s evading. He’s not like Alan from Intimidation Program, a band that would be doing a lot better if their singer was allowed to be out later than ten at night. Nor are there bed checks that he carefully avoids with a perfectly created pillow arrangement. In the Johnson home a closed bedroom door is as good as an electrified fence, and Andy Hurley spends nearly all his time with said door firmly shut. There aren’t even any fancy escape plans based on making blanket ropes or climbing down a plant lattice. Yes, his bedroom is on the second floor, along with all the Johnson’s bedrooms, but he takes the stairs like a normal person.

It’s really only sneaking out because he doesn’t want to attract attention to himself leaving. It’s hard to say what would be worse, his stepfather noticing, or his stepsiblings noticing. The former would try to make it into a conversation _what band-good venue-what genre-I remember when I was younger I liked-do you need money for merch_ and the trying to be friends thing is still as awkward as it was the first day Andy met him. Maybe worse, you’d figure by now he’d realise Andy doesn’t want to be friends and stop trying. The drama that would come with his stepsiblings knowing he was going to a band would depend on which one found out, and neither option is good. He doesn’t want to take Valerie and Gemma with him, and he doesn’t want to listen to Anchor telling him his bands have sold out, and he needs to listen to underground band titled _whateverthefuck_. Most of the bands he sees don’t even have merchandise yet, just EPs. It’s impossible to relate that message though, not that he cares about the opinion of a dick named Anchor. Really it should have been a clue for his mom too, that the man she was interested in had poor decision making skills. Who names someone Anchor?

Andy makes it out the back door unnoticed, and get the tops of his shoes wet with dew as he sneaks through the back yard. Once he’s at the front he sits in the dark on the step, the cold of moonlit concrete burning into his ass. There’s a bit of a wind too, enough to make his shirt flap. It doesn’t matter though, he’ll warm up in the car. There’s no coat check in Wake, and hoodies are too hot for a mosh pit.

It takes Pete an unprecedented ten minutes to get to his house. Andy runs down the sidewalk and pulls the seat belt around him with one hand, cranking the heat dial with the other. Once both tasks are done and Pete’s safely driving again Andy deems it safe to ask “you got stuck in traffic?”

“I’m on time.” Yeah, it’s technically true. But the thing is Pete doesn’t do on time when he’s picking up Andy. He’s always early, always waiting by the time Andy gets out of the house. They both have high discomfort levels about their families, and Pete likes to be around when Andy has to flee. It’s weird.

Really, Pete’s been acting weird all day. Of course, Pete acting weird isn’t that weird. Andy’s the only one of their group of friends that knew Pete before camp. He’s pretty much come to terms with the fact that Pete will always be a little screwed up.

High school tends to be an every man for themselves enterprise, but Andy likes to imagine he can help Pete best of them all. Not because he knows pre-camp Pete; for the most part that person has nothing to do with post-camp Pete. No, the reason he can help is because he has trauma no one else does. Ashlee and Joe’s parents are happy, Patrick’s are divorced but civilised. Andy’s the one that went for a week long vacation with his dad only to be dragged home by the cops, learning too late that his dad didn’t have visitation rights. Keeping his last name is his only source of connection. Every time he signs a test he thinks of his dad. He and Pete are the dysfunctional ones, and sometimes you need to hear other people screaming about how fucked up the world is to make that okay.

So Pete’s acting weird, and tomorrow morning Andy’s going to have to thank his step-father for ‘going out of his way’ to make vegan pancakes, but tonight none of it matters. Tonight there are four bands battling for who deserves a headliner role Friday night. It’s obviously going to be a popularity contest. Whoever is able to fit the most friends in the club will win, not the deserving band. Andy doesn’t know any of the bands though, so it won’t upset him if the wrong one wins.

They go straight for the front at the middle of the stage after they get their hands stamped to show they can’t buy drinks. The first band is pretty decent, more thrash than lyrical. Andy doesn’t time the set, but when the lead singer throws the microphone to the ground he figures it’s been about forty minutes. In that time they’ve been shoved to the middle of the pit. Andy’s dripping with sweat, throat dry and sore from wordlessly screaming along. They can either get water together and probably lose their spot, or one of them can go and they might lose each other. Andy turns to ask Pete what he’d rather, and he’s gone. Being jostled is a hazard that comes with being in the pit, but he’s not in any direction, neither side, nor in front or behind.

He worries for a second, then shakes it off. Pete probably went to take a piss, or shove toilet paper up a bleeding nose. They’ve both used Charmin tampons before, so they can keep moshing instead of being stuck in the bathroom for an act. It’s not until Pete still isn’t back several songs unto the second act that Andy’s worry comes back. The pit is pretty small tonight, he should be able to spot him. It’s not like Pete is a noob, scared to wade through the bodies to get to where he wants to be. If someone headbutted Pete he could be passed out in the bathroom with a concussion.

Andy shoves his way out, intent on rescuing Pete from brain hemorrhage. Fucking figures Pete wouldn’t tell him, just slip out sideways and try to deal with it himself. Damn that fucking camp, teaching him to consider injury personal weakness. The bathroom is empty too. Andy wants to be relieved to not see Pete splayed over a toilet, but it’s just more worrisome. They’re quickly running out of options, getting dangerously close to kidnapping territory.

He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t have his phone. It’s too likely to get broken in his low hanging pocket, and he doesn’t want to answer a call from his step-father asking how the band is either. He’s not sure who he could call anyway, the cops wouldn’t give a shit. Andy’s not related to Pete, and Pete has a record of reckless behaviour. But at the very least he needs more options. Which means pay phone just outside the door, so he can get Patrick to call everyone else. Screw authorities, they can have their own search party.

Pete’s standing outside, with a bunch of guys. He doesn’t catch Andy’s concern, just nods a hey.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“I got tired of getting whacked, so I found some guys to hang out with. Want a smoke?”

There is so much wrong in that sentence Andy doesn’t even know where to start. Pete knows that he’s straight edge and doesn’t put toxins into his body. And Pete’s never turned down the chance to be in a mosh pit. For fucksakes, he tried to start a pit at homecoming, to Blink 182. There’s something seriously fucked with Pete tonight, and Andy’s not going to even try and fix it. Pete’s clearly too far gone tonight for anyone to be able to help him. Andy shakes his head and re-enters the club, flashing his stamped hand at the bouncer.

*

When the alarm goes off it’s automatic for Mikey to wander out of his bedroom and down the stairs. It’s not until he opens his eyes on a treadmill and Bowflex set that he remembers. Multiple waves of emotion hit him at once, enough to have him sink to the floor. It’s too much for simple disappointment, way too much. Either Pete’s brain is entirely fucked, or this is normal and he’s just too used to the wash of intoxicants followed by the drag of coming down to recognise it. It doesn’t matter which is true, Mikey ends up with his face on his knees anyway. The pattern on the belt of the treadmill immediately bites into the backs of his thighs, boxers riding high, but he doesn’t care. 

Last night he and Pete agreed through email that they wouldn’t contact their families. There were good reasons for it, not just Pete obviously not caring about getting back into the Wentz house, but yesterday’s logic means nothing right now. This should be Gee’s room and he should be rubbing his cold feet on him rather than getting colder thanks to the chilled plastic underneath him.

The Bowflex is glaring at him, and Mikey glares back. He sits there, expression of hate on his face, until he starts to shiver from the cold. Then it’s back upstairs to get dressed, comb his hair over his eyes, and try to pick a pair of shoes that will inspire the least amount of rambling from Joe. The coffee sitting in the kitchen is weak as water, barely strong enough to create a scent, and Pete’s parents are both drinking it from the smallest cups Mikey’s ever seen. He takes a cup anyway, because Starbucks and Dunkin Donuts won’t get it right either, and at least this way he’s not wasting money.

 

Pete’s cell buzzes in his pocket. For the most part he’s been ignoring texts, but it’ll probably be suspicious to the Wentzes if he doesn’t look at it. It’s from Pete, and Mikey has to read it several times before his brain lets him believe the horror that are the words. Apparently Pete is in some sort of soccer league, and there’s a game tonight. A second message followed immediately after, as he’s still staring at the first. It tells him the place, and to look it up on Mapquest, in case he doesn’t know where the indoor arenas are.

Mikey can’t stay here. Mikey can’t have this shitty life, but that’s not a choice right now, so at the very least he can’t stay in this kitchen. There are too many silent androids, not enough normal sustenance, and a constant flurry of directives on how to be the best Pete he can be. The wave of emotion is teetering over his head again, and it’s too fucking much, so Mikey grabs his backpack and sprints out the door. Fuck Pete if that’s not how he normally exits.

Even the drive to school sucks. It’s not like Mikey’s never thought about having his own car, not being dependant on Gerard or Ray. In theory it’s pretty sweet, going anywhere he wants to go at any time, without having to worry about if the family car needs to be back at a certain time for someone else’s use. In practice it sucks. Overwhelmingly. Or maybe that’s just the difference in their emotional range. The reason the silent drive make him want to cry hardly matters, as long as he’s not completely pathetic and following through. Nobody’s arguing about what station to listen to, or claiming driver’s playlist, or talking over the music with him, quoting movies and shows. It’s a fucking stupid thing to miss but he does.

The only thing that could make things better right now is a hook up. Technically Pete has Ashlee, but that’s really not going to work. He doesn’t have sex with girls, and he’s not going to start just to make sure Pete’s life continues to be perfect and happy. He already has to do so much other bullshit, he’s not turning straight for him. That’s one line he’s not going to cross. He just needs to think of an alternative.

The solution comes to him pretty much immediately; Gabe Saporta. It’s not like Gabe is the only person Mikey hooks up with, and he has no illusions that he’s Gabe’s only either. But the thing about Gabe is he’s friendly. Most guys like to talk for a few minutes first, establish indie cred before impressing the world by being bi. Gabe’s too cool for that shit. Or not cool enough, depending on who’s talking. It doesn’t matter to Mikey though, his cool points tend to rack up without him really noticing, mingling and saying the right things with ease. The night culture is a lot better for him than school is. Screw the people that sneer at Gabe’s enthusiasm and unsprayed hair and loose jeans and propensity to make out with everyone, Mikey’s only ever had appreciation for Gabe’s sluttiness. How can he scorn Gabe’s willingness to have a random hookup or a threesome in his car when it’s exactly what he wants too?

Gabe is where is always is when he doesn’t have class, or decides having fun is more important than getting yelled at by his mom when she gets yet another automated phone call for another absence; the drama class. It’s one of the classrooms in what Gabe affectionately calls the Artistic Bitch corridor; a hall that culminates in the theatre everyone in the visual and performing arts have to share. Even if Mikey hadn’t been inside a hundred times over the last three years he’d still know which room was the drama room. There’s only one door that has a crude happy/sad mask burned in it. To this day no one from the play will admit who did it, or even to witnessing it. Which is impossible. Everyone was milling around for three hours between the end of the school day and the start of the play, there’s no way no one was in the hall for the half an hour it must have taken. But the stage actors are a close bunch, much more so than the film actors in the next class, and even when faced with the threat of suspension for destruction of school property no one said anything.

“So, I’ve seen you around,” he says. You don’t have to know Gabe for long to realise he needs to be noticed. Mikey could skip formalities of hi and go straight for it, but Pete needs an introduction.

“Oh yeah? What’s your favourite me?”

He’s fishing for a character, but Mikey’s not interested in discussing Othello or Little Shop of Horrors. “The one where you make out with guys.”

“Really.” It’s Gabe’s version of a _are you sure_.

“Yeah.”

It’s still a good twenty minutes before first period, and there are only a handful of students in the class. No one looks over when Mikey sits in his lap, feet braced on either side, fingers curled on the lip of the chair. He’s happy that there’s no gum, but probably wouldn’t stop to resettle if there was. No one cares. No one has ever cared, except for that one fat girl that’s obviously a voyeur, and that’s not the kind of caring that Mikey’s concerned about. There’s no Gay-Straight alliance at this school, but if there was all the Artistic Bitches would be in it. It’s one of those cliches that’s still true.

He doesn’t stop until the five minute bell rings. He still has a class to get to himself; he’d rather avoid a detention that comes with being late. He can’t imagine the Wentzes reacting happily to something like that. Besides, if he’s still on Gabe’s lap when drama class starts, Mr Acker will have to break them up, and that will just be awkward.

Mikey’s halfway through sociology before he realises he needs to talk to Ashlee. It’s not very cool to keep doing this without her knowing. He needs to tell her. Because he has no idea what classes she has, the earliest chance he’ll have is lunch. Luckily the last five minutes of gym are devoted to changing and slapping on more deodorant. Mikey forgets the pleasantries and bolts for the cafeteria. He makes it there just as the bell rings, which gives him the chance to snag her before she walks in.

“Hey. What’s up?” He hasn’t said a peep yet, but she can obviously see something in his face.

“You’re really great and I hope this doesn’t ruin any chance for friendship,” he’s not saying that because he has to, because it’s the thing you say when you’re breaking up. It’s the truth, Ashlee seems pretty cool. She just has the wrong genitalia. “but I just made out with a guy. We need to break up.”

*

Bob is not a born and raised sci-fi geek. In the two years he’s been with Gerard and Frank he’s learned to embrace geekdom and all it has to offer. Revel in it, even. But he didn’t start with it, and there are some things that still throw him off. He’ll never be as good as Frank with alternate timelines of Marvel. Gerard reads all the same comics Frank does, but he doesn’t retain the information until he’s read them a few times, whereas Frank only needs one read through. Bob just reads what they recommend, or whatever cover looks interesting when the shipment comes in on Tuesday. Nor will he ever have Gerard’s vast knowledge of Magic. Wizards and Starcitygames are both constant tabs on the computer, Magic The Gathering cards being a good forty percent of their sales, but Gee hardly ever needs to check. He just knows what would fit well in a certain skew of a Saprolings deck, and what the name of the card is and what set it belongs to. If anything he gets lost trying to figure out where that crate is in the store. Bob’s area of expertise is manga, but that’s not geeky in an American way, so he’s not sure if it counts.

Apparently another way he fails the geek test is with horror movies. Bob can hold his own naming off franchises and plots. He can even make an argument for why Leprechaun wasn’t as shitty as The Howling. But he’s never really believed in any of it. You’d have to be pretty delusional to truly believe that aliens or vampires exist, or that a serial killer can be impaled through the face with a machete and still live.

Except now Mikey is possessed by another person, and Frank and Gerard are taking it in stride. Bob on the other hand is creeped the fuck out. He can’t stop glancing over, waiting for Mikey to crawl backwards down the stairs, or write all over a wall, or start speaking in tongues. Mikey’s not doing any of it though, and unless he starts punching a cat to death in the next twenty minutes, Bob’s going to have to deal with it. Vellocet Lovers needs Mikey.

Bob arrives at the Way house a little before six. He stops at Gerard’s room for a kiss. Gee nuzzles into his neck and tells him he smells like lemons. His deodorant is supposed to be something like lightning storm, but he’s spent the last two hours doing laundry, and that’s what those anti-static sheets smell like, so it’s not really a surprise. It’s a toss up to whether Gerard will come watch them. Sometimes Mikey gets pissy when he shows up, but then the guy in the next room isn’t Mikey. Frank definitely won’t be there tonight. VL goes on at seven, so Frank won’t have the store cleared of stragglers yet, never mind have the till counted.

Not-Mikey is watching something on his computer when Bob opens the door. The computer chair spins too quick, tilting from side to side as it goes. One day soon it’s going to snap off, and he and Frank can only hope to be here when it does. “Come on, I’ve got your bass in the van.”

“What?”

He doesn’t want to give not-Mikey too many hints into Mikey’s real life, would never want him to know enough to successfully act like him. Tonight will be fine, all muscle memory. “You’re in a band. We’re playing tonight. Just go with it.” He’s not going to tell him Mikey was the one to name the band, or write a few of the lyrics, grimacing at Gerard every time he tried to sneak a peek.

He goes in for one last kiss from Gee before heading to his van. Not-Mikey climbs into the back, apparently uninterested in having a conversation. Bob’s fine with that. It would be creepy to talk to him anyway. Addison is next on the list, not in the least because he’ll need to make up time after, so it’s important to know how much he needs to speed.

As always Bob texts him five minutes before he arrives to tell him to be waiting outside, and as always it’s at least ten minutes of idling before Addison barrels out of the house. His Super One plastic bag of vitamin waters thumps against his thigh as he runs down the ridiculously long sidewalk. Bob would bet good money there are third world countries with shorter airstrips. When he throws open the front door a stream of excuses leaves him nearly as fast, but Bob doesn’t listen to them anymore. There’s only so many times he can hear _my ferret gnawed the laces off my shoes and I had to restring them_ , or _I promised to feed the pig_. As far as Bob can tell the deal seems to be unlimited funds and no curfew in exchange for doing every animal related chore. Bob can appreciate the importance of the first two, and back in high school probably would have done anything for more pocket money, but the fact that the Vespers have a goat is just weird. He fears the day Frank finds out, he’ll probably want to ride it, or eat its cheese or something.

“Edie says she doesn’t need a ride,” Addison says after he’s done the list of reasons. Bob grins and mentally adjusts his timeline. Without having to go to all the way to her house, there’s no need to go twenty over the speed limit. He’s almost disappointed.

Bob parks as close to the back door as he can. He’s hardly the only van vying for that spot: a few different bands are playing tonight. Long Road has a second parking lot at the back just for employees and bands though, so it’s not as rough as some other places. Edie is standing by the back door smoking what might be a cigarette but is probably a joint. When she sees them she grinds the tip against the brick and puts the remainder in her pocket before walking towards them. It takes a combination effort of her and Addison to get the rusty van doors open.

There are better reasons for loving this venue than just the parking accommodation. There are a lot of places to play in this city, but this one has Bob’s best memory of the last ten years attached. Long Road is where he met Frank for the first time. Not that he knew it was Frank, just knew the guy as the hotass guitarist from Barbie Plaid, and he’d only been the bearded drummer from Staring Movement. It had taken them a night of eyeing each other up and about a dozen beers combined, but they’d finally exchanged messy handjobs in the women’s bathroom, gender codes not strictly enforced and the men’s not having lockable stalls, just dividers. By the time Staring Movement’s fourth bassist had quit on them, they were dating Gerard, and his younger brother was learning how to play. Mikey had offered to join, the only provision being that they change their name to something less shitty.

At least the person possessing Mikey helps carry in some of their equipment. It still doesn’t make Bob trust him. 

*

It’s not Pete’s first time in Long Road. It’s probably not even his fiftieth, not that he is counting, or even could. The first year he starting going to concerts he saved all his stubs, but once he overflowed his first shoebox he just gave up on it. He blogs about some of the better nights, but doing each night would be exhausting. He recognises some of the people on the floor, every night goers, just like him, and he has no doubt that Andy’s in the venue somewhere. On Thursdays Long Road is the place to be, the only night of the week you need to prepurchase tickets rather than picking them up at the door. The real question is if Mikey’s playing along like they’re supposed to be and is with Andy, like Pete would have been.

Nor is it the first time on this stage. Pete never interferes with the band, even when they’re shit, there are just some things you don’t do to people. But Long Road’s stage has a perfect height for facilitating crowd surfing; short enough to climb onto, tall enough that a good upwards leap gets you head height. You can’t just ignore that. Plus crowd surfing isn’t the only reason to climb up; when it’s an awesome band levering himself into the stage to rip off the set list helps him remember what to talk up later on his LJ. And then there was that one time he’d been in the audience for Another Boy Left for the eleventh time -one of the bands he and Andy would kill their own grandmas to watch- and they’d recognised him. When he’d hopped up to surf, the singer had grabbed his wrist and let him join in for one song.

It sure as fuck _is_ his first time on stage in Long Road with an instrument in hand.  
Still, it’s manageable. As long as he’s not really listening, his fingers -Mikey’s fingers- do the rockin’. It’s when he tunes in and remembers who he is that it all falls apart. The girl looks at him every time he does, the strength of her concern making Pete wonder if she’s his girlfriend. Mikey really should have told him, but then Mikey doesn’t seem to want to tell him anything helpful. At least he has things to think about, it’s easy to stare into the mosh pit and compose poetry to email to Mikey when he gets home. If this switch thing lasts much longer Patrick’s going to start getting suspicious about the lack. He might even accuse him of being suicidal, and with his background Pete’s screwed with the first teacher Patrick tells.

Despite the theme name, from the little he lets soak in it doesn’t sound like they’re a theme band. They’ve only got one song that relates to their name; the boy introduces it as Nasdat Storytime before starting a verse that Pete maybe understands two words of. There are teens in the audience singing along though, and that’s an insane feeling and he’s not even in the band. He can only imagine what the actual lyricist feels, what it would be like if he went to recite at a poetry slam and someone knew his words by heart. He makes a vow and seals it with a hock of spit that has the girl frowning at him that after he switches back he’ll teach himself how to play.

Pete wants to snort when the girl -Edie, Bob quietly reminds him- mentions an after party as they’re packing their stuff back into Bob’s van. They’re good, but they’re not KISS, there are no groupies looking to score with them. As far as Pete knows they haven’t even left the city to play. An after party seems a bit premature. But Pete climbs in the van anyway. Evidently he’s the only one with reluctance, and he can’t show it. Mikey wouldn’t, and he needs to be Mikey.

House parties are not Pete’s favourite location. A lot of times they’re necessary, a few of his favourite bands are only popular enough to play basements. It’s far better to pretend he gives a shit about Ashlee’s sister’s best friend’s boyfriend’s birthday party than to miss a performance. That doesn’t mean he likes them. People tend to be ridiculous and stupid when they’re intoxicated. Drunks are worse than stoners, they’re not like Joe and his theories, instead there are football players using someone’s picture frames as frisbees, or girls keying someone’s car because that girl called them fat two years ago. It can be really hard to remember that he doesn’t need to watch out for behaviour the counsellors would hate when he’s surrounded by it.

This time there’s not even a band. After two minutes of silence Pete has to ask the first person he sees without a red plastic cup of beer. The guy shrugs at him, but the guy beside him actually says “indie bands are for bitches.” Apparently everyone is satisfied with someone’s iPod in a docking station playing fucking Creed.

It doesn’t take long for Bob to bail. He says he needs to go home, that he has work in a few hours, but Pete’s pretty sure it’s just an excuse to get to leave, considering he works with Frank and Gerard at that nerd store. _I have a morning shift_ just goes over better than _your taste in music makes me want to claw my eardrums out of my head, and you’re all a bunch of morons_. Pete wants to ask for a ride, but knows he has to stay. Mikey would, with the party backpack he had it’s beyond obvious he would. He already fails at being Mikey in probably a hundred ways he doesn’t know he’s failing, he can’t purposely turn his back on the things he does know.

It is awkward though, being here. He doesn’t know if someone is an enemy of Mikey’s and he should be glaring daggers at them. He doesn’t know what method Mikey would normally use to chat a girl up. And he doesn’t want to drink any of the damn cups people keep passing him. As soon as whoever it is looks away he puts it down on the nearest flat surface. It’s better than saying no flat out. Mikey wouldn’t do that either.

Then there’s a hand on his back, and before he can remember who he is now, he’s in second position. A chip crunches under his knee, and his neck is flaky with dried melted hair gel where his hands curl around it, but he knows what he has to do. Every single thing about this scene would have him punished. He can’t just do what he wants, that was a lesson ground into his soul.

Someone says something to him. He hears it, there would be hell to pay if you didn’t listen to a counsellor when positioned, but it doesn’t make sense. Someone’s asking him if Mikey is okay. It doesn’t make sense, and it doesn’t have to, they can do whatever they want, they don’t have to make sense, but it’s scary because he doesn’t know what to do, what they want. The someone pulls on his arm to make him stand up. He does, of course. He wants to vomit, because being singled out during Position Check cannot possibly be good, but he goes with them because you don’t say no, not if you want to go home.

It takes a while to be Pete again. When he is, he recognises Addison, obviously driving Mikey home. He stammers out an apology, and when Addison asks him what he took to start tripping out, Pete just shrugs. He can’t explain it’s not what he took, but what he is.

*

Joe’s pretty pissed when he realises he left the pot brownies on the counter. He’s not worried anyone else will eat them, his mom and sister are both on a diet and his dad prefers salty. Besides, it’s an unstated but obvious family fact that he’s a stoner. It’s not like stumbling upon a laced dessert will stun any of them. His irritation is based entirely on having his plans for the day messed with.

Still, he’s not entirely out of luck. He doesn’t leave the house without a pipe. He’s got one for his bedroom, and one for his backpack. It’s just a matter of if he has anything more than a roach on him. Sometimes he forgets to replenish his sources. A quick check shows most of two grams left; a full and a half full cute batman printed dimebag nestled safely beside his pipe.

Before he can zip up again Pete leans over. Joe’s expecting a scowl. What he gets is “sweet. I haven’t had a smoke in days.”

“Uh, what? You haven’t had a smoke in _ever_. Straight edge, remember? It’s you and Andy against the world.”

Pete bashes his head against the seat in front of him but doesn’t say anything else. Joe doesn’t really get it, but shrugs it off. Sometimes Pete is hard to get.

When they pile off the bus everyone clumps into automatic clusters of friends, ignoring Mr Wells and Mr Tankana asking them to organise themselves by class. Cassie isn’t happy, doesn’t even smirk when Jon snaps her bra strap. Nine and a half times out of ten she does, then reaches for his underwear. It’s a weird form of affection but it works for them, so whatever. Because it’s Cassie, she lets everyone in a twenty foot radius know why she’s upset. “Anyone else think this field trip is offensive? Gawking is sort of shitty.”

Joe doesn’t really care one way or the other. It’s quite possible it’s exploitative, that Cass is right. But the bottom line is this is a field trip and one field trip days you make no apologies. Not for ganking the best seats in the back of the bus, not for snagging the best place to eat lunch, and not for whomever you’re observing.

Thankfully he doesn’t have to state _I don’t care if we’re watching the Holocaust_ -as a Jew he’s totally allowed to say that- _it’s a field trip_ , a winning argument in no way whatsoever, because Greta speaks first. “Yeah, but they’re, like, used to it.”

“Yeah, from people that mean well and watch to buy candles and quilts. We’re here because we read a book about religion being a genetic mistake.”

“Some of us are here because we watched a movie,” Pete offers. It doesn’t seem to placate her.

That, in a nutshell, is the real difference between sociology and psychology. In sociology you watch movies at the end of a unit, and in psych Mr Wells reads out book excerpts. It sounds lame, like little kids sitting in a sharing circle in a library, but Joe likes it. He thinks more people should let their little kids come out. Mr Wells doesn’t do different voices, but he’s good at inflection, and if Joe closes his eyes he can see the characters.

Wells and Tankana eventually gain control and put them in groups so they can go watch different daily activities. Joe’s not entirely sure what they’re supposed to be learning from this. First the class went controversial talking about the God gene, then he read passages from [Hybrids](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hominids_\(novel\)) and now they’re spying on the Amish. Or the Hutterite. Or whatever sort of colony this is. He’s not going to ask anyone for clarification. He doesn’t want Andy to call him a pothead, and he certainly doesn’t want Mr Wells to think his lesson isn’t best taught with a day off. Joe doesn’t really get it, but he’s not looking a gift horse in the mouth.

What he finds out after they gather for lunch is that he apparently _will_ be looking a goat in the junk. Whether or not it’s a gift is left unanswered. Andy doesn’t seem too impressed though, quickly gets loud enough about it that they switch him to wood carving.

It’s not until later in the day that Joe can break away from his group. He only needs to text Jon and Brittany, Cassie is already in his group. It’s weird when they show up, Pete is with them. As long as he’s known Pete he’s been anti-intoxicants, probably from the whole scared straight nightmare. Joe takes the first hit, blackening just a corner of it. Brittany stands close to cup the equipment, but the wind is low and the lighter surprisingly doesn’t crap out. His normally smoking friends will get their hoots first, and then Joe will ask a question or two to make sure Pete’s sure he wants to try it before he lets Jon pass the pipe. He’s not a DARE spokesman, it’s not his job to convince Pete he’ll go insane and start seeing spiders under his skin. He is a close friend, and it is his job to make sure Pete’s doing this for the right reasons, i.e. he wants to, not because most of his friends do it and he thinks he has to.

It’s even weirder when Mikey Way sprints towards them out of nowhere. Joe knows he’s a fellow smoker, but they’re not really friends beyond that general community. They’re not nearly close enough that Mikey should think he can mooch. Mikey doesn’t seem to share that opinion. He snatches the pipe out of Pete’s hand before he even has a chance to inhale.

“You get tested for soccer, remember!”

Joe actually forgot about that. Apparently Pete did too. Good thing Mikey remembered, or Pete wouldn’t have been able to play. Although that begs the question how the fuck did Mikey know? Nobody except soccer players care about soccer. Even Patrick doesn’t go to Pete’s games, and his crush is so big it’s visible from space.

“I don’t care.” Oh, so apparently Pete didn’t forget. He attempts to snatch the pipe back, but he grabs by the bowl, which, if not still actually lit is still searing hot. “Ow, fuck.”

“Pete, you really, really do. A soccer scholarship is how you’re getting out.”

Pete scowls but doesn’t attempt to take the bowl again when Mikey passes it to Cassie. Joe doesn’t know what the fuck just happened, but he doesn’t have time for questions. They have maybe five minutes left to smoke before a teacher comes looking for them. Questions can wait.

*

Gabe is one of the numbers he knows by heart. Mikey has a handful memorised just in case someone jacks his phone. It’s like the Boy Scouts teach you; shit comes up. Sometimes he needs a ride, sometimes he needs someone to pretend to be his boyfriend, sometimes he needs a loan of twenty bucks so he can buy more E. There’s Gee, of course. Frank and Bob, both awesome in their own right, not just for approaching Gerard from another angle. Ray, both his cell and his house, then James for a rock solid weed connection. And last on the list is Gabe, who is nearly always on the opposite side whatever room Mikey’s in, with gum if he’s tweaking, or a steady hand if he needs to get off. Seeing as the first is denied to him -bored or not if Pete’s future relies on clean piss Mikey won’t fuck that for him- the second will have to do. He deserves it, he had to play for almost ten minutes last night before the opportunity to take a dive came.

Since he can rattle off the seven numbers like nothing, it doesn’t matter that Pete has his phone. What matters is yesterday morning in drama class they didn’t exchange numbers, so ‘Pete’ knowing it would make him a giant creeper. Gabe likes bold but even he can tell the difference between bold and creeper, so Mikey needs to not cross that line.

Lucky for him, he knows Gabe and Nate and Victoria got on the same bus. He’s pretty sure Ray and Pete are on the other one, but that doesn’t matter as much. He stares out the window for most of the ride. He only wants to make his move a few minutes before they arrive back at Washington. When he recognises them as being a few blocks away he stands and starts moving down the aisle, the teacher shouting at him to sit back down. Mikey knows Tankana, knows he won’t risk breaking an ankle standing on a moving bus to escort him back to his seat. Ignoring how everyone else is looking at him, a brief break in the monotony of busing back to school, he finds Gabe’s seat and sits down in his lap.

“My parents are home after school. How about yours?” Mikey knows Gabe’s are too; the rare time they hang out without going somewhere it’s always at Mikey’s. Being moderately quiet as to not wake the Ways is apparently a far better option than whatever goes down at the Saportas. Gabe calls it passive aggressive bullshit. Mikey’s not entirely sure what that means, but he doesn’t ask questions. It’s not that kind of friendship.

Still, he asks. For three reasons, really. The first is that in line with the phone number, Pete wouldn’t know that Gabe’s place is unavailable. The second is that considering the lovely reception Mikey’s gotten the last three days, he has to assume the Wentzes aren’t very open-minded. Bringing a boy home and following that up with sex noises most likely would go over poorly. The third is the most important; Gabe’s alternatives tend to be pretty thrilling. Even if Pete had an open bed Mikey might say he didn’t to see what Gabe might come up with.

Unsurprisingly, Gabe’s reaction to him dropping onto his lap is carefully cool. “I’m sure we can find somewhere.” Gabe turns his head to the side. “Nate, unless you’ve turned gay-”

“In the week since you last propositioned me?” he snorts.

“Yeah, since then.” Gabe either doesn’t hear the sarcasm or is ignoring it utterly. Knowing Gabe, it could easily be either.

“No.”

“Then you should stay in the library until I text you.”

Nate rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything. Given that clue Mikey expects that they’re going to fool around in Gabe’s car before Gabe gives Nate a ride home like he usually does. Nate is to Gabe as Mikey is to Ray, best friends that mooch the living daylights out of each other.

It’s only a few minutes until the bus is pulling to a stop in front of the school. They’re ten minutes late, half the school has already left, the rest clustered around the front doors or down the street at the bus stop. Mikey’s got no reason to go to Pete’s locker so he heads straight for the parking lot. Patrick’s scowling, and Mikey can’t help but remember Pete’s Maslow notes. It must suck to be him every time Pete makes out with another guy. Mikey wouldn’t do that to Ray, if Ray had ever shown any inclination towards guys. But Pete’s life is messy enough already. He’s not touching the Pete/Patrick thing with a ten foot pole.

The parking lot is mostly empty, few people that have a car would stick around after three thirty on purpose. It doesn’t much matter anyway. The combination of tinted windows and hard dicks is enough to convince them it’s a good idea.

It’s not Mikey’s first time in the backseat of Gabe’s car. When it became established that they were club partners Gabe even made a second car door key for him. Ravers tend to cuddle in the bathroom, it’s harder to have sex there. He _knows_ this car, from the slurpee stains in a myriad of colours to the burn on the roof when they were fucking around with Axe and lighters. It’s different though, in Pete’s body. His normal legs are long enough that no matter how he positions the seat belt buckle digs somewhere into his legs. Pete’s more compact, limbs more easily managed. And weirdly enough, his mouth is bigger. It’s easier to open his lips around Gabe’s dick.

Gabe’s hand weaves through Pete’s bangs and tightens until he’s pulling at the scalp. It hurts more than it used to on Mikey’s own scalp. Maybe Pete’s head is more sensitive, maybe Gabe is pulling harder because doesn’t know what buttons to press with a stranger and so just smashes any combination at random. Mikey’s not really into pain during sex, but he doesn’t hate it enough to punch Gabe in the thigh and demand he stop. Besides, the more he lets Gabe do now, the more allowing Gabe will be for him after. And Mikey really wants to fuck his face hard. Crude or not it’s true; he wants to make Gabe gag on him.

*

If you ask Ashlee, she’d say everyone is making way too big a deal about this. Not that anyone ever asks for her opinion. Between her parents, her sister, and her friends, Ashlee can count on her fingers how many times she’s been asked for her opinion.

With her friends it’s easier. Not that she’s in love with gender typecasting, but the bottom line is they’re a bunch of guys. They might do emotions better than the jock set, but that doesn’t mean everything is always a sharing circle. Nor does she want it to to be. If she did she’d find a bunch of sappy Cancers and Pisces to hang with. With the guys if she has something to say she says it, and if they start talking over her she tells them to shut the fuck up.

At home it’s different. Jessica is annoying because Ashlee can tell her a million times and she’ll just say _yeah, but_ and repeat exactly what she’s been saying. Mom and Dad don’t do that. They only say what they think once, as permanent as scratching words into wet cement. At least her friends let her them them they’re wrong. Ashlee could never risk that at home.

It’s a tossup to whether her friends and family will be of like mind or completely opposed in any given situation. Yesterday Pete broke up with her. In this everyone shares the opinion that she’s having the wrong reaction.

“Look. I know I’m supposed to be devastated, but I’m not.”

“I know, but it’s like a shock delay, like when people drive their car into a river and they say they’re fine and then three days later they fall into a coma.”

“I really don’t think that’s going to happen, Jess.” She sounds so damn earnest that Ashlee can’t flat out say she’s being stupid.

“Yeah, but we need to be prepared for when it hits you. What kind of low fat ice cream should I get Daddy to buy?”

Like their father has ever done any grocery shopping. Menial labour is below him. And Connie already knows she likes chocolate chip cookie dough with butterscotch topping. Their housekeeper knows more about the Simpson kids than either of their parents do. “I don’t need any.”

Retreating to her bedroom isn’t the best strategy, they’ll all think she wants privacy to freak out. But it’s retreat or stay in the room, and anything is better than staying in the room. Thankfully she’s a modern girl, which means she has enough in her bedroom to entertain her for days. As long as she’s okay with dinner being the half bag of chips at the end of her bed, theoretically she doesn’t have to leave until tomorrow morning.

When she turns on her laptop there’s an offline message sent from Joe. It’s a link. Ashlee clicks it immediately. Joe finds the weirdest shit when he’s high, it’s almost always good for a laugh. This is a rare time it’s not. Instead of the spider meme or a new Oh My Gods strip it’s just a list of movies.

 **wtf** she types back, not necessarily expecting an answer. Joe never signs out so it’s impossible to tell if he’s there or AFK.

After about ten minutes, as she’s writing on people’s walls, he answers. **it’s a list of sad movies girls like to cry at.**

 **seriously? do i seem like the crying type? did i cry at all at school today?** If he wasn’t trying to be helpful she would be pissed, as it is it’s still irritating.

**dunno was on a fieldtrip**

**trust me, i didn’t**

Joe takes a long time to reply. Ashlee’s sincerely hoping that it’s because he’s also reading blogs or Erowid or something, not because he’s trying to think of a nice way to call her bluff. Not that it even is a bluff. She hasn’t cried, and she can’t see it happening in the future. The truth of it is, it’s hard to be emotional devastated about something when you’ve been expecting it to happen. Ashlee has no doubts that Pete cares about her, and they had sex a lot, which was fun. But aside from the first few weeks she never really thought he loved her, and so she did her best to not fall into that trap herself.

 **ok but it’s school. no one would cry there.** Technically he’s right, it takes a real sadsack to burst into tears at school. But actually saying he’s right would undermine her argument, so she won’t.

**i’ll kick his ass?**

Then he seems to reread what he said and realise that it could be read wrong. **not because i’m a homophobe!!!**

**just cause he broke up with you to have gay fun.**

She rolls her eyes before typing out **don’t.** Absolutely nothing good can come from Joe and Pete getting into a fight. Joe would probably get his ass kicked, and then Pete would feel guilty as hell about it.

**we all knew that the gay above the waist thing was a ruse, but i didn’t think that he’d dump you for dick.**

Ashlee had never thought that specifically, but she had been sure that if Patrick ever made a strong move he’d follow him out the room over her. She’s sure this isn’t because of Patrick though. Both of them would have said something.

**he sat on gabe saporta’s lap on the bus today. iguess it’s his new boyfriend? figured i should tell you before you see them togehter.**

She shrugs at the computer, then remembers Joe can’t actually see that. **k. thanks. not planning on ripping his eyes out or anything.**

**sure no beating up? not cause youre a girl and can’t defend yourself and im like protecting your honor. i’d do it for andy and tom and all them too.**

**thanks. i’m good.** Because she _is_ , whether or not anyone believes her about it.

*

It’s a bit of a surprise that he’s not getting an onslaught of offers by text. It’s Friday afternoon closing on evening. Three houses down Mikey should be dealing with at least half a dozen invitations for Pete to come out and play. Well, maybe not from his actual friends. Pete can pretty much guarantee they’ll be upset with what the entire school knows at this point. The funny thing is he’s not even mad at Mikey for it. It wouldn’t have been the way Pete would have ended it- he probably wouldn’t have ended it until university split them. But he and Ashlee were never Hermione and Ron, and he’s sure she knew that too. It’s Andy and Joe and Patrick that will hate him for it.

Ryan though, he’ll have an event, and Travis will have a concert, and a handful of people marked in his cellphone as distinguishing features rather than names will have other plans. So even if his closest friendships are a mess now, his acquaintances will pull through. As Mikey, Pete would have expected the same onslaught of offers by text. Mikey has enough names in his phone to imply popularity. Not that Pete really wants to go to a rave and take drugs, but it’s the principle.

It sucks, having to wait for invitations that aren’t coming in. When he’s alone it’s a lot easier to remember their words, to worry about the hours and days he can’t remember. But he’s got no choice but to sit at Mikey’s computer, watching tv and waiting. It’s not like he can be proactive and start calling random numbers to ask to party. What if one is a cousin or Mikey’s college advisor?

He even gets as desperate as to go downstairs at eight, the plan being to ask Gerard if there’s a DnD game they can crash. At this point people are people, even if they wear capes and own fifty dice. Even in a less hostile home, the quiet is bad. The plan is quickly foiled when he opens the door to Bob fucking Frank, Gerard watching. Pete quickly closes the door and storms back up the stairs. It’s almost as creepy as if he actually was Gerard’s brother.

At nine the doorbell rings. Pete has no choice but to get it. The Ways are out at a restaurant. Or the pub. Or something. It’s only his third day of being Mikey, it’s easy to forget to show an interest in what parents are doing instead of filtering their few words with wary caution, discarding what he doesn’t need.

A tall guy pushes his way past Pete when he opens the door. He looks dressed to go party, a theory that’s confirmed when he grins and says with cocky pride “me and my beautiful fake ID are here.”

Pete shrugs, says “I’ve got one too.” Mikey does, in one pocket of his wallet as his real one sits in the next.

“Yeah, but mine is passable, and yours? Not so much.”

Pete shrugs, as he’s pretty sure that’s what Mikey would do.

“Don’t even front, Way. I’ve been buying your drinks for six months.”

Sure enough, the bouncer takes one look at his identification and stamps his hand with the smiley face that means underage. Pete’s hardly disappointed. Drinking hasn’t been an option since camp. Gabe buys him one drink, which Pete carefully hands off to a drunk sorority girl when he’s not looking. He doesn’t stick around to see if she drinks it. It’s not his business.

At ten to three the DJ makes his warnings, at five to three the lights come on. The dance floor looks different, grey and lifeless instead of swarming with shoes and the occasional knocked over cooler or glass, ice crunching under high heels.

“So now the question is which one of us can pull better to drive? I stopped drinking around one, and I only did one line of coke and that was hours ago. What all did you take?”

“I only had that one drink. Me and Gerard had a rough night yesterday. Nearly puked in homeroom.” Gabe seems like the kind of guy that needs an excuse for not getting messed up.

“Cool. Keys are yours then.” Gabe tosses said item at him.

Pete drives them to the Ways. It’s better than having to pretend that Mikey forgot where his friend lives, and if he drops Gabe off he’ll either have to stay or be in possession of his car. Gabe doesn’t seem to notice until they’ve parked. “Oh, sleepovers. My favourite.”

The reason Gabe loves sleepovers becomes obvious around dawn. Pete’s sleeping on the living room couch, Gabe sleeping on Mikey’s bed a good cover for the fact that Pete couldn’t use it anyway. He’s still awake when someone stumbles into the kitchen, looking for the sixtieth time at how the streetlamp light bleeds through the vertical blinds. It’s not anyone dangerous, but still Pete holds his breath and curls his hands into fists as he waits for them to go back to bed. Instead the person comes into the living room and Pete tenses even more, ready to pop them in the face if he has to.

When the person drops to sit on his stomach Pete doesn’t think about it for a moment, just swings.

“Ow. The _fuck_. That is not proper foreplay, Mikeyway.”

Foreplay. What the hell? “It’s like five am Gabe.”

“Okay, yeah, right. But I’m no longer parched, and you have a dick, and I have a dick. And we have a couch, and since it’s Saturday your parents should be sleeping in for a good two hours. Perfect conditions, if you ask me.”

Pete’s made out with enough guys to know rutting against them doesn’t freak him out. He has a feeling anal sex would be something completely different. But unless Gabe has an emergency pocket sewn into his underwear, he doesn’t have the supplies for it. And Pete’s pretty sure he can handle handjobs. Pun unintended.

*

If there’s one thing that makes Mikey wince it’s when events have stupid names. Why can’t people just plan events without having to have a stupid name for it? It’s not like he’s going to pass on going to a rave just because it’s called Electric Sunflower Party. But he never accepts invites on Facebook because he doesn’t like being attached to shit like that.

This one is just as bad as any other. The idea of having 20 bands play in a twenty four hour period is pretty awesome. Calling it Rock Around the Clock really just makes Mikey want to beat his head against a wall. Andy had seemed to understand the wince, but pointed out title-based cynicism wasn’t a good enough reason for not going. Mikey agreed, and more importantly he’s pretty sure Pete would have too.

He’s been there about six hours when his cell rings. He pulls it out and recognises the number as his own. He’s not sure why Pete wants to talk to him at six am, but there’s no reason not to. The guy he’s been making out with for most of the night is in the bathroom -at least it’s the excuse he gave before wandering off, he could be getting off with someone or doing lines, it’s not really Mikey’s business- so he might as well take the opportunity to talk. Mikey’s still not ready to buy into the Freaky Friday learning life lessons trope as a reason for their switch, but it’s become obvious Pete’s life sucks. If Pete wants to talk he’ll talk.

“Hey. What’s up?”

“So, I just had sex with Gabe. I know you had sex with Gabe yesterday, I’m pretty sure everyone knows. You think we should just close the gap and the three of us should have sex?”

Mikey’s way too interested to even consider acting aloof about it. “I think that’s an awesome idea.”

“You should come over now. Gabe’s gonna be here a while, and I can’t sleep, so.”

“Yeah, I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

“Good. See ya.”

It’s not like it’s his first threesome, he’s not a sheltered preteen. But it takes a real rock star persona to get jaded about threesomes and Vellocet Lovers or not, he’s just not that guy. Besides, how many people have ever had the chance to see themselves fucking someone? It would be nearly criminal to turn it down.

It’s pretty easy to get out of the bar. He came in a group, but it doesn’t seem like any of them actually want to be around him. Andy’s so deep into the pit it would take the Jaws of Life to get him out, so Mikey just texts his goodbye. Andy will see it the next time he can pull out his phone without it getting crushed in the mass surrounding him. Joe’s some combination of pissed at and weirded out by him. He won’t look at Mikey when he says he’s taking off. Patrick just shrugs, like he’s used to Pete doing whatever the fuck his whims tell him to. And of course Ashlee isn’t with them, it’s too soon or whatever.

After he makes his short rounds, he starts to push his way towards the exit. Normally he wouldn’t bother to inform a potential hook-up of his departure after securing a certain hook-up, but the emo kid -Ryan, if he remembers right- is near the door. When Mikey stops Ryan tilts his head for a kiss and Mikey goes for it. Gabe would hardly be offended if he knew, and he knows Pete’s a kissing slut, though tonight is apparently his first night putting out. Ryan doesn’t seem fazed when Mikey says he needs to go, just slides his hand out from between Mikey’s belt and back. Ryan might be a good lay -if he’s not one of the bi-for-cred scene kids; Mikey can’t help but notice Ryan waits until he thinks people are looking to go in for a kiss- but a threesome that involves Gabe Saporta is a much better prospect.

Mikey parks Pete’s car down the street, Gabe’s is taking up most of the driveway. It’s Friday night, but it’s still too chilly for suburban back yard bonfires, so there aren’t many cars on the street. When he tries it, the front door is unlocked.

It’s nice to be back home. It’ll hurt in a few hours when he’s forced to leave, most likely without even getting to see Gerard. But for now it’s nice, and there’s no need to think of the future yet. Pete’s got blankets and a pillow on the living room couch, but it’s not really a surprise after sleeping on a couch in Pete’s room the last three nights. Gabe leers at him, Mikey uses Pete’s face as best as he can to leer back.

“Nobody’s fucking me,” Pete says. Mikey wants to frown, that’s not a way to maintain Mikeyness in front of Gabe. But making a big deal of it will only draw more attention, and it’s not like he can make Pete let Mikey fuck him.

“You can blow me then,” he answers instead. It’ll be pretty awesome to look down and see himself blowing him. He wants to see what he looks like with his mouth stretched across someone’s cock. Pedicone tried to record it on his cell one time, but it came out too shaky and the colours were too saturated to see much of anything. This will be much better.

“Awesome,” Gabe mutters. Mikey’s not making the request for Gabe, but it’s a good side note that he wants it too.

Unfortunately Pete doesn’t drop to his knees and go for it. Instead he grabs Mikey’s ass and pulls him in for a kiss. It’s a moment of his tongue in his mouth -and he really would have thought he’d taste like coffee, but it’s just morning breath- and then every inch of skin seems to crawl on his bones, and then. What the fuck. He’s looking down at Pete, instead of up at his own face.

Mikey pulls away and checks himself in the mirrored curio cabinet. He’s himself again. “Are you fucking kidding me? I would have made out with you that damn night.”

“You think it’ll happen again if we make out again?”

Mikey shrugs. “We can kiss in pairs. And you don’t need to kiss to have sex, Pete.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but I am always down for more making out.”

They snort, almost in unison. Gabe being up for making out is hardly a surprise. Mikey smirks, then undoes the jeans Pete picked for him and kicks them into a pile in the corner, then reaches for Pete’s belt.

As soon as Pete goes home Mikey’s going to wake Gerard up early and risk getting brutally murdered so they can watch Empire Strikes, and then he’s going to follow him to Galaxy and play Magic with him and Bob all afternoon. Hopefully Frank will show. Group games are always more fun, and Mikey likes both his brother’s boyfriends, even if he knows Bob better by virtue of being in Vellocet. They’ll drink normal tasting coffee and talk about customers and Stargate Atlantis vs Stargate SG1. But until Pete decides it’s time to leave, Mikey’s going to push for amazing sex. Maybe this whole thing was a twenty first century Cupid’s plot, switching bodies making him notice Pete. But he can’t be expected to know if they’re destined until they have sex. Figuring out destiny can come after orgasms.


End file.
